


if tonight my true love, did belong to me

by janie_tangerine



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (a smidge of but it's theeere), Anal, Belonging, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Abandonment Issues, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Geraskier Kink Bingo (The Witcher), Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Bites, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, jaskier for perceptive boyfriend of the century tbqh, zero plot but long lead up i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26258092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: “Your own damned mother did what now,” he asks, and he sounds… Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever heard him sound this angry. Still not at him. What the —He sounds like he wants to know.Well.He was the one sharing it without meaning it, he supposes he might as well get it off his chest. “She — she left me on the side of the road when I was eight knowing Vesemir would find me and knowing what was going to happen to me and I had no idea. Sorry if I think that’s plenty fucking enough, especially when everyone who followed after did exactly the fucking same —”Words die in his throat when Jaskier’s rough fingertips suddenly touch his face, brushing over his cheekbone, and fuck he also always forgets how Jaskier is really pretty much his height except when he gets this close, and he looks like he’s about to cry now, what the fuck —“Too bad,” Jaskier says, “I’m not going anywhere.”Or: in which Geralt is distressed without quite understanding why, until he does, while Jaskier has Opinions about it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 57
Kudos: 821
Collections: Best Geralt, Geraskier Kink Bingo, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	if tonight my true love, did belong to me

**Author's Note:**

> AAAND for the part where I'm apparently writing again with some sort of regularity, have another geraskier kink bingo fill - this one is for the _possessive sex_ except that I'm shit at like... straight-up possessive sex so have a twist on that, with sincere apologies for poor Geralt's parental issues /o\ also this is like... half lead-up and half tooth-rotting fluff porn and I'm also 99% sure that some book Geralt characterization trickled in here which is why I also tagged it all media but it's supposed to be show setting so idek. Have some fluff. The title is from the gaslight anthem as mostly usual, I own zilch and I'll now saunter back downwards and leave you to curse me for how much your dentist will charge you for the cavity-inducing fluff at the end. ;)

If only he had a clue of what the _hell_ is wrong with him maybe Geralt wouldn’t be feeling like complete _shit_ right now when he has literally no reason to.

 _If only_ , he reasons as he pushes Roach ahead on the road, except that _he doesn’t fucking know_. And it’s unnerving because again, _he has no fucking reason to be feeling like complete shit_.

It’s just —

For the first time in... he can’t remember how fucking long, honestly, he’s had a full year or so of actually _good_ contracts. Sure, there’s been the occasional idiotic alderman to deal with, and the occasional villagers who wouldn’t even let him sleep in the stables, and more occasional villagers driving him out of their town, but in comparison to how it used to be before Jaskier’s thrice-damned (or blessed) song started to make the rounds… it’s been positively beyond his wildest expectations. He has never gone so low on coin that he couldn’t afford a bed or to repair his armor, he hasn’t had to take underpaid jobs just to put _some_ money in his purse, he hasn’t gone hungry at all, he even has... regular company, because Jaskier has decided to _take a sabbatical from singing competitions, a man has to take a break and refresh to gain new inspiration_ or something of the kind so he hasn’t wandered off for a few weeks before showing up again after following his trail as he usually does.

It’s actually been nice to have someone with all the time instead of being miserably alone — and he’s getting adjusted to it, damn, that’s _not good_ and it’s bound to end up _badly_ , he knows it deep inside and yet he knows he won’t do anything about it until shit hits the fan and he inevitably will regret that —, as much as Jaskier _can_ be an annoying little shit.

Except that he’s an annoying little shit who has apparently no intention of fucking off _and_ who has actually spent years actively singing his praises around the Continent _and_ Geralt isn’t so stupid that he doesn’t know he only has him to thank if _this_ one year has been this good, so — as much as he thinks _Toss a Coin_ is still nonsensical drivel, he’ll take the money over stones, thank you very much.

Anyway, that’s the goddamned fucking point.

As in, if for the first time in he can’t remember how fucking long he’s not scrounging for money, he’s not going hungry, he’s not dealing with hostile people on a daily basis, the few times he went to a whorehouse the girls he laid with actually didn’t smell like fear, he’s not traveling around the continent with just his horse for company and his human company is making his life easier, from bettering his reputation to making sure he has a bath ready in his room whenever he comes back from a hunt, _why_ he’s been feeling progressively fucking _miserable_ for the last few months?

It’s just — he _hates_ it. He feels like he’s going to burst out of his skin, he knows he’s been ruder than his usual lately but whenever Jaskier asks him something beyond basic questions, looking at him like everything is going swimmingly (and it _is_ as far as the bard’s concerned, of course it does, why wouldn’t it be? He has made coin and had a grand time these months same as Geralt has, after all) just looking at his halfway concerned face is making him feel even _worse_ as if he had no right to feel like he wants to scream out his answer, which he _doesn’t_ because _he has no reason to be angry_. He shouldn’t even be angry in the first place, witchers don’t get angry, they don’t — they don’t _do_ emotions, so he’s probably not even that, just — something else? Probably. But it’s not exactly fucking helping here, for —

“Hey,” Jaskier asks, catching up with him, sounding a bit short of breath, “are you all right?”

Geralt would like to know _how_ he guessed that he might not be, considering that he was fiddling on his lute as usual and he could only see Geralt’s shoulders from his vantage point.

“Yes,” he cuts short. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “I mean, you’ve just seemed a bit off lately, but — never mind. I guess I’m seeing things. That said, would be nice if you slowed down a bit. Not all of us can _run_ after you,” he winks, and right, Geralt _had_ started going a bit too fast, probably.

He hums in agreement and slows down.

Jaskier just winks at him again and goes back to composing, even if Geralt’s sure that he’s glancing at him once in a while and that he looks kind of worried.

Shit.

Does it mean he realized something’s wrong? Maybe. If only he knew _what the fuck_ was wrong, because _literally nothing is_ , now that would be great.

Instead… he has no fucking clue.

 _Amazing_.

Really fucking _amazing_.

He rides on. Maybe if he gets a decent night’s sleep at the next village before they arrive in Rinde he’ll — get over it. Fine, he hasn’t slept badly later, which also _does not add up_ because he has more or less _always_ slept like shit, but —

Fuck.

 _Fuck_ , he hates this.

He really fucking _hates_ it.

— —

He actually sleeps eight whole hours.

He wakes up feeling antsy and _tired_ and wishing he had some monster to kill at hand, except he doesn’t because this town had no contracts for him, which hadn’t mattered because he has enough money to last him for the next two months if he wanted —

“Geralt, are you _sure_ nothing’s amiss?”

“No,” he snaps, and he flinches a bit when he hears himself snapping, and when he looks at Jaskier he can see that he hasn’t bought it.

“If you say so,” he replies, and Geralt flinches again as he can hear in Jaskier’s tone how _not_ convinced he is.

“Leave it,” he says. “Really. It’s nothing.”

“… If you want to talk about it you can ask,” Jaskier says, “though I know that _talking about it_ sounds like your worst nightmare. Still. Offer’s open.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Geralt cuts him short.

Jaskier looks even less convinced than before.

Geralt doesn’t even bother to get something to eat before leaving the tavern. The sooner the get to Rinde, the sooner he can find a contract, the sooner he can get rid of this itch under his skin that won’t fucking leave him alone and of the headache building up at the back of his head.

 _Fuck_.

He has no reason to feel like this.

Did he already say that he _hates_ it?

— —

He finds a contract for a nest of nekkers to kill in Rinde and he takes it without questioning — it says at least fifteen, which usually would make him grumble because he hates when it’s so many of them at once, _but_ at this point it will mean more distractions and more chances to actually get rid of _some_ of this damned pent-up adrenaline, so… fifteen is good. He convinces Jaskier to stay behind promising more than the bare details when he’s back and he’s halfway sure Jaskier only accepts because he can see that he’s not in the mood to argue, then he heads for the nest.

It’s _thirty_ of them.

He slays them all, and when he’s done he’s covered in nekker blood and slime, he feels tired as hell, he doesn’t feel at all relieved, just even more exhausted, and when he comes back with the heads and informs the alderman that it was more than fifteen, he actually gets paid for thirty without even needing to argue.

He’s somewhat sure that it was because he must have _sounded_ terrifying, never mind how he _looked_ — his eyes had gone back to normal by then, but he’s pretty sure that he was glaring at the poor man as if he would rip his head off if he didn’t renegotiate the contract, and throughout that evening and just before he goes to sleep that night, he can’t help wondering...

 _What the fuck_ is wrong with him?

He doesn’t remember _ever_ feeling like this at any point in his life, and it’s been a damned long one, he _should_ —

He shakes his head as he wakes up with that thought drilling in his head, foregoes breakfas and goes to the stable to retrieve Roach. _Maybe we could go to Temeria_ , he thinks, _maybe I just need a change of scenery_.

He knows that he’s lying to himself, honestly; he’s changed scenery plenty of times in the last few weeks through Redania, and if anything it’s only gotten worse.

Still.

He’ll figure it out.

And if he doesn’t it’ll pass, like — like _everything_ always passes, at some point.

He heads south and Jaskier follows and he still can’t shake that damned fucking itch away.

He wishes it had already happened at some point so at least he’d _know_ —

But it hasn’t.

He rides on. If he can’t make sense of it, then he can damn well ignore it until it’s gone.

It’s a system that’s always gone splendidly until now, after all. Why shouldn’t it now?

— —

It doesn’t go away for the next two days.

Then they end up in a town where there are no contracts but there’s a full board of notices just outside its edge, and Jaskier scans all of them before grabbing one.

“Oh,” he says, reading it thoroughly, “what about _this_.”

“What about _what_?” Geralt asks, wishing they would get into town already because he’s tired and that headache is still building up and the sunlight is hurting his eyes and he can barely keep them open.

“You wanted to go to Wyzima, right?”

“So what?”

“Nothing,” Jaskier says, “it’s just, I know I said I was taking a break, but they’re apparently having a competition in Mirthe in a couple of weeks, it doesn’t require any new composition to enter and there’s good money for the reward. It’s not like we _need_ it but it’s advertising and it wouldn’t harm. I guess that if you’re really set on Wyzima —”

Now.

He probably _could_ have waited for Jaskier to finish that sentence and hear what he was actually planning.

 _Except_ that the moment he hears _that_ , he just — he _knows_ what he’s going to say. That they should most likely part ways for a while and he can go to Wyzima while Jaskier goes to Mirthe, but considering how lately he’s obviously been hideous company, maybe this is the time Jaskier actually sees some reason, catches up with what _everyone_ else already knows and doesn’t meet him in Wyzima as he should have a hell of a long time ago, because _why_ would he still be here following Geralt when he has literally no fucking reason to beyond writing songs (and he already has _a lot_ of those, he can live off them comfortably now, can’t he?) anyway?

“Fine,” Geralt interrupts him, “if you want to go, no one’s stopping you.”

He was hoping that it would come out… well. Matter-of-fact.

To his own horror, he sounds _angry_.

What the fucking —

“I… never said that?” Jaskier replies, sounding… not _hurt_ , but certainly like he wasn’t expecting that. “Geralt, really, I know you said everything was fine and all, but as it is I’m pretty damned sure it’s _not_ fine, so how about you just take a moment and talk to me —”

“ _Stop that_ ,” he half-screams, and _fuck_ but his throat feels dry and talking feels like he’s scraping on sandpaper and he doesn't even know what the fuck he’s saying, or better he knows but he’s not _thinking_ before he says it and since _when_ he doesn’t think before weighing each single word he has to speak because what if he chooses the wrong ones and he ends up getting stoned or worse _again_ — “Just _stop_ , it’s useless and there’s no fucking point in delaying the inevitable, so just — go to Mirthe, _I_ am not fucking stopping you, it was going to happen anyway, just fucking leave already,” he blurts, and now he sounds even _more_ angry and he doesn’t know where the fuck it’s coming from, for —

“ _Delaying the inevitable_ as in? Have pity on some of us who _aren’t getting the damned point_ , Geralt,” Jaskier replies, and fuck, _he’s still there_ anyone else would have just shrugged and left him there, he _knows_ that, he just — and he wants to know the damned point now? As if it wasn’t obvious?

“Oh, I don’t know, that if you have to just leave you might as well do it now, it’s not like anyone would stand being around me much longer.”

He doesn’t know what he was expecting when he pretty much shouted that in Jaskier’s face.

Certainly not for Jaskier’s eyes to go wider as he looks at him as if he’s grown three heads.

“Or maybe,” Jaskier replies, holding both hands up, “I was just about to say that if you were set on Wyzima but weren’t in a hurry, and I don’t think you are because it’s a while until winter comes anyway, you could just take the detour to Mirthe with me and then we could both go to Wyzima and get better lodgings than usual with the money I would hopefully make at the competition, also because since you look like you need a break from killing things... I thought you might not hate judging how terrible is everyone else’s singing, and you decided everything else on your own?”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

It… says _things_ he doesn’t even want to consider thinking about if _that_ was what Jaskier was proposing and he didn’t even vaguely consider it as an option, and now he feels like a complete fucking asshole for having snapped at him like that, and the thing is that Jaskier is still looking at him like he’s extremely concerned and he _hates_ it —

“Tell you what,” Jaskier says, “now we get into town, we find an inn with a nice room, I am _not_ playing tonight, there’s no need, and you can take the time it takes from now until then to decide _how_ you’re going to tell me what the fuck is wrong with you.”

“Nothing’s —” He starts, but Jaskier just scoffs.

“Oh, _a lot_ is wrong with you, but I’m not having this conversation by the side of the road. Come on, let’s find an inn.”

Geralt is tempted to be contrarian just because he doesn’t want to talk about it, but that headache is getting worse and he’s too tired to say no, and so he follows Jaskier into town and doesn’t think about how to discuss things with him at all, he actually thinks about nothing except how much he _hates_ feeling like this, and when they’re inside the room and he’s gotten rid of his armor and Jaskier is just looking at him with crossed arms and a _concerned_ expression on his face, he just wants to scream all over again.

“So,” Jaskier says, “what’s wrong? _Don’t_ say nothing. Please.”

He shrugs. “Something,” he says, and adds nothing else.

Jaskier half-laughs, though it doesn’t seem to be enough to get him off his case. “I had gotten that far,” he says, “and if you’re not going to be propositive, let’s see what _I_ can make of this situation. So, I don’t know what’s been going through your head these last few weeks, but I know that today the moment it sounded like I wanted to propose splitting for a while, which we _have_ done more than once before and after which we _always_ met up within a month, you about went off at me and said I was _delaying the inevitable_ , so… is the so-called inevitable parting ways and never showing up again?”

 _Fuck_. He would like to know _when_ in the past years has Jaskier learned to read him like that — admittedly, it wasn’t… too hard to figure it out, but still. The fact that he doesn’t sound angry, just... _sad_ , is not — fuck. He hates it. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Not now, not _ever_ , but — he doubts he can get away from it now. _Shit_.

“Do we really have to talk about it?” He asks, tiredly. He knows the answer will be _yes_ , but he figures it’s worth a try.

“Well, considering that you look like shit, _yes_ , I think we really should,” Jaskier says. “Maybe we could start from, why _delaying the inevitable_?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No,” Jaskier replies, and fuck, he can feel that he’s sincere, and _what the fuck, why can’t he just figure it out on his damned own_ —

“Fuck,” he says, “can’t you just — let it go? We both know it’s going to happen at some point.”

“What,” Jaskier says, “me leaving and never coming back?”

Geralt can feel himself flinching.

 _Shit_.

From the way Jaskier’s face looks as he grasps that he won’t get a verbal answer but that he pretty much confirmed that suspicion anyway… _why_ the fuck is he looking _sad_ now?

“It’s… you know it’s not going to happen necessarily, right?”

“Please,” Geralt scoffs, “as if it hasn’t with everyone else already, I don’t know how you held out that long but you’ll get tired, too, at some point, so —”

“ _You_ say that,” Jaskier protests, “I wasn’t getting tired, I don’t think I will, I actually _do_ enjoy your company as much as you seem to think it’s not that great and I don’t know who the fuck _everyone else_ is but that’s not _me_ , so if you’d pay me the favor of not deciding things for me —”

“I don’t fucking _know_ ,” he interrupts, and gods he hopes no one heard him because that was louder than he had thought but that headache has gotten _worse_ and he’s feeling like his skin is going to burst for how much it’s itching and Jaskier isn’t fucking _getting_ it, “maybe if your own damned mother didn’t want you in the first place that says all, doesn’t — _fuck_.”

He hadn’t —

He hadn’t known he was going to say it. Fuck. _Fuck_. Why did he even think it was a good idea, now if everything goes well Jaskier’s going to think he’s pathetic because _who_ the fuck is hung up about something that happened decades ago and when it was bloody fucking _destiny_ that it would happen anyway, except that now he said it and he’s turning towards the door because _he_ should just leave first before Jaskier does, but —

But then Jaskier’s hand is on his elbow and he’s dragging him back and _fuck_ sometimes he forgets that Jaskier _does_ have muscles under those fine, silky doublets, and he _could_ get out of it —

Except that Jaskier looks pissed off but not at _him_.

“Your _own damned mother_ did what now,” he asks, and he sounds… Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever heard him sound this angry. Still not at _him_. What the —

He sounds like he wants to know.

Well.

 _He_ was the one sharing it without meaning it, he supposes he might as well get it off his chest. “She — she left me on the side of the road when I was eight knowing Vesemir would find me and knowing what was going to happen to me and _I had no idea_. Sorry if I think that’s plenty fucking enough, especially when everyone who followed after did exactly the fucking same —”

Words die in his throat when Jaskier’s rough fingertips suddenly touch his face, brushing over his cheekbone, and _fuck_ he also always forgets how Jaskier is really pretty much his height except when he gets this close, and he looks like he’s about to cry now, _what the fuck_ —

“Too bad,” Jaskier says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

It feels like someone punched him in the gut, and _yet_ — and yet the way Jaskier’s touching his face so delicately is making his blood burn and this is all so damned confusing and it’s _too much_ and too little and he doesn’t even know what the fuck he wants now except to _not move_ —

“You say that now,” he manages to say, “but you might not in a while. It’s all right. I know I’m — I’m hardly good company. It’s been — more than enough that you stayed this long, I —”

“Oh, for — you really don’t know, do you?”

“… I really don’t know _what_ now?” Geralt thinks he sounds half-pleading but honestly, he doesn’t, and he’s _tired_ and everything is going too well and it can’t last, it _can’t_ —

“Oh,” Jaskier says again, “you really think — fuck.”

What —

Fucking hell, he said that out loud, didn’t he? He opens his mouth again to — to _apologize_ or something, but then Jaskier shakes his head and moves _closer_ and —

“Right,” he says, “I get it. No, really, I _get_ it, but you’re missing a… fundamental part of the picture, I think.”

“Such as?”

“Such as _this_ ,” Jaskier says, and then he’s moved forward and _wait_ his mouth is on Geralt’s, and he’s kissing him so very softly but also _firmly_ and he’s not pushing but it’s obvious that this isn’t — this isn’t some kind of friendly consolatory kiss or anything of the kind, not at all, and he’s too shocked to do anything else but when Jaskier moves back he’s halfway smiling and halfway looking at him as if he’s the most beautiful sight that ever ended in front of his eyes and that doesn’t compute, that doesn’t —

“What — what was that?” He asks, his throat hurting as he speaks.

“It was,” Jaskier says, not moving, “ _why_ I’m not going anywhere. Geralt, for — I’ve been in love with you for years at this point, and I guess you hadn’t suspected it from the way you’re gaping at me right now, but even if you don’t feel the same, and if you don’t that’s all right, I’ve been fine until now, I’ll be fine later… I really don’t _want_ to go anywhere else. I’m exactly where I want to be. And no half-baked attempt of yours to make me angry and get me to run is going to make me change my mind, since it’s obvious that you don’t mean it.”

Oh.

_Oh._

For a moment he doesn’t — he opens his mouth, closes it, that pain at the back of his head suddenly receding as Jaskier’s other hand reaches to cup his neck without pressing or anything else, just _staying_ there, warm and rough and comforting, and maybe anyone else’s hand on his throat would make him feel trapped but Jaskier’s doesn’t and maybe — maybe there was a reason why the idea of Jaskier leaving specifically was _that_ insufferable, or maybe there was a reason why thinking that things were going too well and it couldn’t last was giving him that much grief, because this time he’d _care_ if they did, and fuck but — but he hadn’t let himself go there because that way only lies pain as far as he’s experienced, but —

“Do it again,” he whispers, not knowing what he’s fishing for exactly but knowing he wants Jaskier to kiss him again, and —

“As you wish, darling,” Jaskier replies, and before Geralt can wonder why hearing _that_ had made his stomach curl on itself in the good way Jaskier’s kissing him again and Geralt’s kissing him back this time, tentatively, but — but _oh_ , it feels good, it feels _right_ , and the way Jaskier’s tongue is running across his upper lip before plunging inside his mouth is sending shivers down his spine and then he realizes that maybe he should move his hands, and when he puts them on Jaskier’s waist Jaskier sighs into it, kissing him deeper, a hand going to his hair, the other still on his face, and _fuck_ but when he starts running his fingers through it it feels _great_ , it feels — he doesn’t even know how to put it, but he just knows he has to kiss Jaskier harder and he whines into it when Jaskier pulls him closer, and wait why is he fucking _shaking_ now, he doesn’t —

“Hey,” Jaskier says, leaning back and kissing his cheek, “ _hey_ , it’s fine, I’m — I’m not going anywhere. I really am _not_.”

“I —” He wants to say, _I know_ , and maybe he actually does, but the words get stuck in his throat as the usually fucking do and he _hates_ it, “everyone else does,” he blurts instead, horrified at how his own voice is trembling, and then Jaskier shakes his had and moves even closer —

“I think,” he says, “that maybe I should show you how much exactly I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

“How?”

He gasps when Jaskier’s hands sneak under his shirt, pressing against the small of his back while he kisses Geralt again, and then Jaskier has moved from their precarious position near the door and has pushed him back on the bed, very gently, gentler than anyone else he’s ever been with, and his rough fingertips are opening up the laces of his shirt, slowly, uncovering his chest, and he can hear the sound of Jaskier kicking off his shoes and maybe he should do it with his own but he doesn’t have to because then Jaskier leans back and does it before taking off his bright red jacket. He’s in a regular shirt and trousers now, and a moment later his mouth is on Geralt’s again, kissing him so very slowly and so very gently, and his hands are roaming over Geralt’s chest and he can’t help pressing up into the touch, his hands going to Jaskier’s hips, not exactly knowing what he wants but surely he wants to feel him _there_ above him, and then Jaskier’s leaning back, his hand going to Geralt’s face again, and he’s looking down at him as if this is the best moment of his life and _it doesn’t compute_ —

“You have no idea,” Jaskier says, “of _how long_ I’ve wanted this, don’t you?”

“… You said years before, but — it’s… strange?”

“What,” he replies, moving back and straddling Geralt’s hips, his hands moving downwards and undoing the laces of his trousers, “that I’ve dreamed about this? That I’ve wanted you since I saw your damned face brooding in that inn and I was completely fucking gone the moment you saved both of our hides without spilling a drop of blood? That I see people spitting at you and I want to punch them in the face after telling them they can’t see what’s right in front of them?”

“And what’s right in front of them, pray tell?” Geralt asks, and maybe he shouldn’t have, maybe it was pushing it —

“Just the best man I know,” Jaskier says, finally pulling his trousers downwards along with his smallclothes, and _fuck_ the way he looks down at him is making Geralt’s blood boil and his dick harden and when those rough, long fingers wrap around it and stroke slowly up and down he can’t help moaning, and then he bites down on his tongue because that was _loud_ , but —

“No,” Jaskier says, “let me hear you, _fuck_ , that was — you sound so good, I — gods damn it, you’re a marvel, don’t you — you really don’t know that,” he says, leaning down and kissing his cheek as he keeps on jerking him off and Geralt moans into his mouth, _again_ —

“Not just the best man I know,” he goes on, and Geralt wants him to shut up _but_ also wants him to go on and so he just moans into his mouth again when Jaskier kisses him before moving back once again, “but also the kindest and the noblest and fuck everyone who thinks different.”

“I’m not —”

“You are,” Jaskier interrupts, his thumb rubbing just under the tip of his dick, and _fuck_ he can feel that he’s leaking all over Jaskier’s hand but it’s not like he could stop if he wanted and it’s been months since he went to a brothel and it hadn’t felt that great anyway, but now maybe he thinks he knows why, because it wasn’t — whatever girl he ended up with hadn’t been —

“ _You are_ and I’ve known the moment I laid eyes on you and — _fuck_ , I don’t offer my services around for nothing, you know.”

Geralt _could_ say he had thought Jaskier had just been looking for adventure, but — but then he starts jerking him off _faster_ and he’s right there on the edge and honestly he hasn’t been with anyone in ages and he’s _tired_ and he wants more and he can just tell Jaskier _yes_ and _faster_ and _more_ until he goes over the edge and Jaskier _keeps_ his fingers on him as he comes all over his palm and he’s leaning down and telling him that he’s doing well and seeing him come is the most beautiful thing he ever had the joy to witness and only idiots wouldn’t want _him_ with them and it’s — he closes his eyes and he just lets himself feel it because if he overthinks it he’s going to explode, and his blood is boiling and he wants to scream as he keeps on coming but Jaskier kisses him instead and lets Geralt moan into his mouth until he’s breathing heavily and he can feel sweat in his hair and Jaskier’s fingers are moving locks of hair away from his forehead and looking into his eyes like he can’t have enough of it

(he _hates_ them, always hated them, that golden color wasn’t his own, and if he thinks of the pain he went through when they changed he wants to hurl but Jaskier looks at them like they’re beautiful and he doesn’t know what to make of it)

and then Jaskier leans down and bites softly around his neck, grasping flesh in between his teeth and sucking on it and _oh fuck but it feels good_ — he moans again, hands grasping at Jaskier’s back, and —

“You like that?” Jaskier asks, sounding pleased with it, and he can only nod.

“Oh,” Jaskier goes on, “I see,” he says, and then his cheek flush and he seems to bite down on his lip for a moment before he leans back down and whispers in his ear, and — “You know,” he says, “when I said I could be your barker back in the day…”

“What?” Geralt moans when he pauses for a moment.

“I mean.” He clears his throat, then leans down again. “I could be… _your_ barker. I kind of already have been for a while, if you get my meaning.”

The way — the way he said _your_ , there was not much to misinterpret. He meant —

“You’re not saying that —”

“I’m saying,” Jaskier goes on, hands running over Geralt’s chest lightly, those rough fingertips making him twitch when they press down on his scarred skin, “that if you want to think of it like _that_ , well. It wouldn’t be anything new.”

“But if you were _mine_ like that —” Geralt starts and doesn’t finish, because — because the logical end of that sentence would imply —

“Not pushing anything on you, darling,” Jaskier replies, and Geralt can feel himself getting hard again at _that_ , fuck, “but if you meant that it should be a two-way thing…,” he says, whispering in his ear again, “it’s not like I’d ever think of any other of your kind as _my_ witcher, you know.”

That — that shouldn’t have felt as good as it _did_ , but the moment Geralt hears it he can’t help whining _again_ , surging up almost desperately to catch Jaskier’s mouth in his, and — there are a lot of things he wants to say but none will come out except for a strangled _please fuck me already_ when they part for air, and then Jaskier’s eyes look maybe a bit bluer when they meet his, and —

“Of course,” he says, pushing Geralt down again, “anything _my_ witcher wants.”

Fuck. _Fuck_ , his blood just went downwards again, didn’t it —

“Maybe — maybe you do want me to bite you where people might see, don’t you?”

And — Geralt groans at the thought, imagining people looking at his collarbone and seeing a bruise that no monster could ever leave on him, and just the idea is driving him crazy because Jaskier doesn’t look put out by it at all and _fuck_ he really wants to do it, and Geralt just — he’s done denying himself what he wants, for now at least, and —

“ _Please_ ,” he blurts, “ _do it_.”

“Gladly,” Jaskier replies, and he leans down again on the other side of his neck.

So maybe whoever is in the next room _absolutely_ hears him when Jaskier’s teeth grasp at the soft flesh right at the bottom of his throat and bite down firmly — it doesn’t hurt, really it couldn’t hurt him if Jaskier tried, but just the _feeling_ of it, and knowing that tomorrow morning there will be no way that won’t show because even with armor on it _would_ given the place where Jaskier is biting just makes him shudder all over, because no one would assume that — that someone such as _him_ could or would have someone who’d — who _would_ —

So maybe he just about whines when Jaskier runs his tongue over the mark _again_ and then kisses it softly and fuck _fuck_ but this feels — it’s not like any other sex he’s ever had, he can't even remember what other sex he’s had right now, not when no one’s ever trailed kisses along his throat and his jaw nor has touched him so gently, and then Jaskier’s muttering something about needing some oil here because he’s _not_ going to spit his way inside him and _fuck_ , he’s getting hard again just thinking about it and it’s barely been… he doesn’t know how long, but it can’t have been that much, can it?

He stays still as Jaskier moves away with an apology and comes back a moment later after rustling in his pack — Geralt can't even bother to smell what it is that he came back with as long as those fingers get in his ass as soon as possible, and so he turns on his stomach and spreads his legs before Jaskier can even ask.

“Look at that,” Jaskier says, his voice less steady than it had been before, “how lovely of you.”

“I’m not —” Geralt starts.

“Oh, you _are_ ,” Jaskier interrupts him, and then slick fingers that absolutely smell like chamomile are touching the rim of his ass and _fuck_ but that shuts him up at once — he’s too busy worrying about how _good_ those rough fingertips feel against it to worry about how Jaskier’s choice of adjectives can’t possibly match reality.

He slides the tip of one in and Geralt about screams into the pillow, and then he pushes in a bit father and he does it _again_ , and by the time he has half of it in, slowly working him open, he thinks he’s going to scream himself hoarse — when Jaskier adds a second one, the other hand grasping at his hair and pulling on it a bit, Geralt has to move against the bed, searching for _some_ friction because his dick is fully hard again now, and the way Jaskier’s fingers on his free hand are carding through his hair while he plunges his fingers inside him fully is going to drive him mad, he _knows_ —

“Hey,” Jaskier says then, his voice so _soft_ , “not that I don’t get it, but — turn around? I want to look at you.”

He —

He _wants to_ —

“Wouldn’t it be easier like this?” Geralt asks, even if he’s already doing that as Jaskier’s fingers slip out of his ass and he already misses them, _fuck_ —

“Maybe,” Jaskier nods, “but maybe I _do_ quite like looking at your astonishingly pretty face now.”

“I’m not —”

“You _are_ ,” Jaskier cuts him off, “there isn’t _one_ single part of you that’s not — that I wouldn’t want to look at all the damned time and your face is absolutely high on the chart, so how about letting me?”

He _could_ object.

He finds he doesn’t really want to and so he doesn’t and lets Jaskier arrange his leg to his liking so that he has a good angle to actually fuck him after he slicks himself up, and _shit_ he hadn’t quite noticed how hard Jaskier was there’s no single doubt that he’s turned on as hell and _for him_ and —

Before he can get farther on that train of thought Jaskier’s dick is pressing against his entrance and he’s pushing inside him and _fuck_ it’s — it’s something else entirely, and he hasn’t done this since _before_ the damned trials when Kaer Morhen was bursting with kids who has to release pent-up energy somewhere but then couldn’t even think about fooling around when most of them had died, and _fuck_ but Jaskier’s going so very slow and he’s still carding through Geralt’s hair and he’s murmuring about how hot and tight and _good_ he feels, and his eyes look again a bit darker as he looks down at the marks on Geralt’s throat and fucking hell this is — this is _so much_ —

“All good?” Jaskier asks, sliding forwards, and Geralt jerks against him when he buries himself deep inside him, hitting in just the right place, and _fuck all_ he’s about to burst open and he doesn’t know how to say it, but of course it’s _good_ , it’s better than good, it’s —

“Yes,” he says, “yes, _more_ , fuck I need more —”

“You only have to ask, darling,” Jaskier says, and moves back and then starts fucking into him faster and the bed starts creaking and it feels so _good_ Geralt thinks he’s going to really burst out of his own damned skin but if that’s how he has to go then it wouldn’t be so bad now, wouldn’t it?

He moans again — he thinks it was Jaskier’s name, wasn’t it — and then Jaskier is leaning down and kissing him again and —

“Fuck,” he says, “you have no idea — you look — you’re something else,” he concludes before picking up the pace again and shit he’s going to wreck him and Geralt wants him to more than he remembers wanting anything else in his entire life.

“Am I now?” He moans, his leg pushing Jaskier downwards, and fuck he can feel his muscles coiling and he knows he can’t last long, not like _this_ , but —

“Yeah,” Jaskier confirms, eagerly, kissing him again, “you _are_ , I — you _know_ I really am not going anywhere?”

He doesn’t ask like he expects an answer and Geralt wishes he could say yes but he can’t quite believe it yet because it feels too good and too perfect and he doesn’t get what he wants, he just _doesn’t_ , but —

“I’m trying to,” he finally says, and then Jaskier’s kissing him again as he fucks into him _harder_ and —

“I’ve wanted this so damned long,” he blurts, “I’d be a right idiot if I left now, wouldn’t I?” Geralt was about to answer, but then one of Jaskier’s hands touches his face again, so softly, and he’s looking down at him with such tenderness even while he’s literally wrecking him open, and then he whispers _my Geralt, sounds nice now_ , and —

He won’t think very soon about how _that_ is what sends him over the edge.

He just knows that the moment he hears it he’s _gone_ , his entire body feeling like he’s gone on fire in the _good_ way, and he’s coming against Jaskier’s stomach just as Jaskier mutters something about not being able to hold on anymore and comes right inside him after one last push and then Jaskier is kissing him again so frantically Geralt can’t literally think about anything else that’s not riding it out as pleasure takes hold of him and he kisses Jaskier back and whines a little at all the _all mine_ s and _so perfect_ and _look at you_ and _so good for me, aren’t you_ s that are dropping out of Jaskier’s mouth at an alarming rate, and he can’t answer because he’s too overwhelmed to but he just — he grasps at Jaskier’s shoulders tighter, dragging him even closer, and can only think, _yes yes yes I am and I don’t want to go anywhere else_ , and then even that’s too much and he doesn’t think about anything that’s not how good this feels altogether.

Fuck, he thinks later, as he drops down on the mattress, Jaskier’s arms moving around his waist.

 _Fuck_ , they’ll have to discuss it. Maybe.

Just not _now_.

— —

The next day, he opens his eyes to sunlight peering through the window. He can smell how wrecked exactly the sheets are, but — honestly, _who cares_. Who cares about anything but the fact that he has his head under Jaskier’s chin, their legs tangled together, and one of Jaskier’s hands is carelessly tracing patterns through the hair at the back of his head and he’s obviously mostly awake, he can feel it, and his other arm is curled around Geralt’s waist and gripping it _strongly_ , and —

Oh.

His head isn’t pounding anymore. His skin isn’t itching. It feels good. It feels _right_. He hasn’t felt better in — he can’t remember how many fucking years. Not in Kaer Morhen, not — not with anyone else.

Not even with —

 _Oh_.

“A coin for your thoughts,” Jaskier mutters a moment later.

“What?”

“You’ve been thinking about something since you opened your eyes. I was awake, you know.”

“How long?”

Jaskier shrugs. “A bit. But I wasn’t going to wake you up when you’ve slept like shit for the last… month or something. What was that about, by the way?”

Geralt shrugs as well, unable to put it differently. “I don’t know. Maybe everything was going too well and I’m not adjusted to it. Maybe I thought the shoe had to drop. But — it’s good now.”

“Is it really?” He sounds concerned. Of course he does.

“Really,” Geralt replies — it _is_ true. It — it is. Fuck. It’s like something inside him he hadn’t known was bent wrong got fixed all of a sudden and the pain of it is — fading in the background. Fucking hell. _Is this how belonging somewhere feels_ , he asks himself, and fuck, maybe it is. Maybe to feel at home you don’t need some _place_ , you need some _one_ , and maybe some part of him knew but hadn’t fully realized it and now that he knows —

Oh.

 _Oh_.

“I don’t have to go to Wyzima at once,” he mutters into Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Sorry?”

“About yesterday. You were right. I can do with a distraction. We can go to Mirthe first.”

“Good,” Jaskier says, “which reminds me, there should be a few acquaintances there who have been wanting to meet _my_ witcher for months.”

“Is that what I am to the Continent’s bards now?” Geralt snorts, trying to not show how much he liked to hear that.

“Pretty much,” Jaskier replies. “Not that I’m sharing with any of them.”

“Don’t even dream of it,” Geralt says, and he can’t help marveling at how easily that left his mouth, and then Jaskier is laughing again and telling him he wouldn’t, if other bards want to write about witchers they only have to track any of the others down and they’re kissing again and —

Well.

If this is how it is, to actually belong somewhere, he thinks he could get adjusted to it.

He really, really could.

End.


End file.
